After his funeral we all—warm black-clad bodies all of us, teary-eyed flush-faced bodies—we all packed underneath the church like hibernating animals, curled close, sleek tails over noses to block out the cold. I couldn’t pull in a full breath. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and the air was chill and damp and ozone-scented. The animals circled at the edges of my vision, a ring of black against ugly linoleum floor and fluorescent lighting, me in the center, swaying side to side. I was tired of being cooed at, coddled, offered the first plate of lukewarm food, given the middle seat in the sleek black limousine, escorted from the cemetery down the hill to the church.
The storm prowled closer, rumbling with faint thunder. I clawed my way out of the burrow and struggled up the hill on my own, shiny black church shoes becoming scuffed with dirt and grass stains. His grave was easy enough to find. It had no headstone yet; the earth was nearly black and damp, freshly turned. When it rained, would the water wash all of the dirt away, melting it back like putrefying, liquid flesh from worm-bitten bones? Would it reveal the lacquer of his wooden coffin, the gold-plated hinges, the crushed flowers tossed carelessly on top?
I sat at the foot of the grave until soft footsteps came from behind me, growing closer like the storm. The hair on my arms was standing on end now, a sign of impending lightning and of the figure coming up the hill. He stopped beside me and settled down. I was awash in the smell of musky cologne—a childhood smell, a smell like strong arms holding me close, like looking up at him as if seeking the faces of titans.
“How is she?”
My mother had touched noses with every animal that entered the church this morning, her eyes red-rimmed and her hackles on end, already cold for having slept in a bed that was newly too large. Only a few people from her side of the family had shown up to the funeral—or maybe none had. It was hard to tell. Bodies were black bodies were mounds of flesh and fur, tails over noses, curled up underneath the church to escape the storm. There were no faces, no names, no colors, only ugly lights and the impending storm and the freshly turned grave at my feet.
“She’s okay,” I said, unsure of whether it was true or not. Either way, it would be. I had work to do, still. My mother was with the other animals; they were resting underneath the church from running, trying to outpace the storm, and they had made it, had earned their rest, but I hadn’t yet. I was outside with my hair standing on end and dirt on my nice black church shoes. She would be okay because I wouldn’t let her be anything else. I had work to do, still.
“Take care of her for me. Your siblings, too.”
“Yeah,” I said. I had work to do, still.
Cool hands smoothed down my arms. The hair lay flat, finally. Footsteps again, receding this time, and when I finally found the courage to look up, I only made eye contact with the bluebird for a moment before he took off into the sky in a flurry of flapping wings.
Overhead, the storm hadn’t broken yet, and it hovered menacingly, crackling with lightning, but it was passing, at least. It was passing.
